Soldier Of Armageddon
by ThunderCats
Summary: Betrayed by the closest thing he had to family and consumed with rage Vergil escapes from hell, desperate to exact his revenge on the person he holds responsible for his downfall. Meanwhile, Dante is having problems of his own. *Cookies for Reviewers*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N-** this story is kind of a sister story to Always outnumbered, Never outgunned, but you don't need to read that to get this, I intend it to stand alone.

Just a warning- I apologise in advance if the characters in this story appear out of character, I have adapted them to fit my plot and while I attempt to stay as true as I can to the original characters, I can't always manage it...

**Soldiers ****of Armageddon**

The Prayer of the Damned

_Darkness; Eternal, impenetrable and incapacitating darkness. There is nothing else._

_I am alone in the shadows, I fear I __am blind. Perhaps I hope that my sight has betrayed me for it would be easier, then, to accept the fate I must someday resign myself to bare._

_I pray at times I've lost my mind. _

_I pray that this world of shadows is the warped creation of a twisted soul and nothing more. I pray the prayer of the damned, for I would trade my sanity__ for a moment of relief from this reality I must call my own. Sanity, my last defence, I fear will be my undoing._

_Time is the cruellest mistress, a concept that I know I would do best to discard and yet I find I can not. Hours slip into days, days melt into months, and I __fear that years slip away. Precious years lost to me. And yet no time has passed at all for in eternity, mere years are rendered inconsequential._

_At times__ I wish, I dream, I pray to feel the cold hand of death on my shoulder. For I no longer live, not in the traditional sense of the word. I merely exist; I am the shadow among shadows._

_I am Vergil._

_I refuse to hope. _

_Hope is a human concept, it is beneath me to hope. Hope implies the possibility of failure, hope implies that one possesses a mis__guided faith in that beyond one's own control._

_So I fight. I fight the darkness._

_I __will hope for nothing, I will fight for everything._

_Fire is a strange thing for it burns brightest in the dark. There is fire inside me, fi__re born of hatred and that is the most resilient kind. I have nursed this little flame, fuelled it carefully, and clung to it in my darkest hour. For in it I see my salvation._

_Fire of hate, fuelled by rage, and sustained by the promise of revenge. _

_His name has become a mantra to me, whispered over and over to the silence. _

_He will feel the pain I felt._

_He will hope where I have fought._

_He is weak where I am strong._

_He will wish, pray, beg for death. _

_And I will have my revenge._

_Fire born of hatred,_

_And I am consumed by flames._

* * *

The village of Warren boasted a population of seventy-two-It's claim to fame as this meant the town ranked about sixteenth on the list of the smallest villages in the United States. A small victory perhaps, but the people of Warren took their victories where they could find them. It was the sort of place where everyone knew your name, the community was your family, where you were expected to grow up and marry a local girl called Maevis or Mary-Ellen, and take over the family farm, and be content with your lot. They frowned on strangers, those unfortunate passers-through, with their short skirts, tanned skin and loose morals. They drank too much, ate too much, and were a bad influence on the local children, who were brought up with good Christian values. Very little ever happened in the town of Warren and so when the strange man first appeared in the village people could talk of nothing else.

All things considered it had not been a very good week for Dante Sparda, fifty-six calls in five days, he'd been bitten by a some kind of mutated dog demon, and now he'd had to drive for over eight hours to some backwards town that wasn't even on the map on the promise that things were going to get a whole lot worse. He sighed, slamming the door of the massive black jeep, watching the sand swirl around his boots as he walked. He was immediately aware of the many disapproving eyes on the back of his neck as he approached the merest spectator- an old man in dungarees with a wide brimmed straw hat.

'I'm looking for the Reverend' he began, already he felt it had been a mistake to come here.

'Wha' choo wan him for?' the man had only three teeth the air whistled through the gaps in his gummy mouth when he spoke.

'He called me,' Dante replied simply.

'Reverend Jones, he live up in that big house down the way. But I warnin you he not take too kindly to outsiders, he don't know siree.'

'Whatever, thanks,' Dante turned back towards the jeep, eager to leave, considering returning home. He didn't need the money, after the last week he had more money then he knew what to do with. In the end his curiosity got the better of him, and he set off down the road which was little more then a dirt track in search of the man who had called him, their conversation on the phone replaying in his head.

'_Devil May Cry.'_

'_I believe you can be of some help to me.'_

'_Demon problems? You're the ninth this morning.'_

'_No not exactly.'_

_Dante had frowned at this. _

'_Well enlighten me, that's kinda all we do here.'_

'_I'm trying to find Dante Sparda.' The voice was throaty and deep, he whispered, as though fearful of being overheard._

'_Yeah? I wouldn't advise that, doesn't end well for too many people.'_

'_So I've heard. I believe I have something that might be of interest to him.'_

'_If it's not a demon than I highly doubt that. Thanks for calling' he had made to hang up the phone._

'_No wait, it's essential I speak with Dante.'_

_Something of the desperate tone in the man's voice had made Dante curious. He waited debating whether or not to end the conversation._

'_I'll pass along a message' he said eventually, and the man on the other end of the phone breathed a sigh of relief. _

_And Dante had listened, his brow knotting into a deep frown as the man, who introduced himself as reverend Jones told him everything._

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** Another Chapter :)

Thanks for all the reviews, cookies in the post for everyone, basically gunna stick with the kind of dark tone, think it suits the story well. Thanks again everyone

Enjoy

TC ;)

Chapter 2- the eight deadly sins

The heat hung heavily in the air that summer's day, rising off the barren wasteland, draped like a rippling, vaporous cloud, so that everything was viewed through a surreal shimmering mist. Dante pushed his hair back off his damp forehead as he jumped down from the jeep, his left hand reaching subconsciously for the grip of his pistol, the cold metal reassuring to his finger tips. He smiled to himself, the reason for his fear eluding him completely. He straightened up to see the door of the large, white washed house open a fraction. A pair of eyes, fearful and apprehensive, appeared in the gap.

'I'm looking for Reverend Jones,' Dante called, his voice sounded louder then he intended.

The eyes blinked once, then the door shut, the hurried sound of a chain being detached echoing loudly, then the door swung open. A figure appeared, shielding it's eyes from the sun, pale as though it had not seen daylight in days.

'Sparda, Dante Sparda?' he faltered. Dante nodded, and the man, who introduced himself as Reverend Jones, motioned him to come inside.

The Reverend was a small man with greying hair and intelligent eyes that darted nervously, resting on nothing, yet questioning everything. He walked lightly on the balls of his feat, leading Dante down a dark corridor into a small sitting room. The curtains were drawn, and a scarf of some kind had been draped over the room's sole light, muting its glare.

'Please have a seat,' he said, gesturing to the faded sofa by the window.

'I'd rather stand.'

'Yes of course you would, of course,' said the Reverend, distractedly, 'the others will be here soon, I'm sure.'

'What others?'

'I…' the Reverend stuttered, 'Of course I had to be sure…'

'Where is it Reverend,' his voice was strong. He was tired and confused and not in the mood for word puzzles.

'Yes of course I will show you, yes… but first we wait… he will be here soon and then yes…'

'This was a mistake,' Dante said abruptly, cutting off the man's bewildered muttering. He made to leave, but found his way blocked by a second, smaller figure.

'So this is the Blasphemous Devil?' sneered the newcomer, gesturing up at Dante, glaring at the Reverend.

'So to speak,' Dante grinned at the accidental accuracy of the man's proclamation.

'Father Murphy,' mumbled the reverend lamely, by way of explanation.

'It was a mistake to call him Jones.'

'My sentiments exactly,' said Dante, making to push the father aside.

'Wait, please' the desperate tone was back in the reverends voice. Dante turned glaring at him.

'Are you going to tell me what this is all about?'

'I… I was to wait for… but no matter… yes come now I'll explain…I just…'

The sound of someone knocking on the door cut him off again.

'That's him that's the last one.'

'Who? The last what exactly.'

But the Reverend was already opening the door and ushering in an old man who looked as puzzled as Dante felt.

'Please just hear me out,' the reverend said, palms raised in a gesture of surrender.

Dante held his gaze, then nodded once.

'Talk fast,' he said, turning to return to the darkened sitting room, the relieved reverend, the old man, and father Murphy following wordlessly.

The old man was introduced as Professor Lennon an expert in astrology at the local university.

'It sounds like the start to a joke, a professor, a priest and a demon hunter walk into a bar…' began the Professor smiling kindly at Dante.

'Not so funny from where I'm standing,' said Dante, 'I have things to do...'

'Demons to slay?' prompted the Father, evidently amused.

Dante glared at him.

'Yes, I appreciate that, of course,' the Reverend began nodding, pacing the small room, 'where to begin, where to begin…'

'The start is usually a safe bet,' the Professor interrupted helpfully.

'Yes yes… Well I noticed it first last Friday, and I guess…'

'It's the work of the Lord,' exclaimed Father Murphy, spring up from the sofa, 'A second coming has been foretold, and it is high time it came to fruition. Judgement day is upon us. The angels will reign down and…'

Dante snorted with laughter, and the Father turned, eyes blazing.

'You find this amusing?'

'Well you gotta love Irony.'

'What are you implying,' snapped the Reverend, 'you think it's… I mean you think it could be… demons' he finished lamely.

'I'm not implying anything,' Dante said wearily, 'at least until I see it.'

'The hand of god reaching forth to…'

'Oh for the love of god!' exclaimed the professor, who had attempted to follow the conversation becoming increasingly bewildered, 'Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on.'

'Well, Professor,' said the Reverend hesitantly, 'It appears there is a hole in the sky.'

* * *

They say that there are seven deadly sins, seven great corrupters that tempt and taunt, enticing and captivating the very best of men- seven evils that render us mere shadows of what we could have been, for they consume us, and ensnare us until we are no longer the masters of our own destiny, but servants of our own bottomless desires.

The Puppet Master knew better then most how easy it was to succumb to the great sins. He also knew that we were mistaken in naming seven, for there were eight. Ironic he thought, that the most deadly and elusive of all would be the one that we were never warned about. Boredom, the great distracter was the downfall of so many of the over ambitious. And so, The Puppet Master, ever wary, ever cautious, had been forced to find new ways to entertain himself.

For a while, he had thrived on death and destruction, in forging great wars between countries, in corrupting those in positions of power and watching them wreak havoc on those supposedly under their protection.

Humans were so easy to manipulate, so easy to tempt, yet they possessed a capacity for violence and evil that he had yet to fully understand. But even that had lost it's allure after so many years of mayhem. He yearned for a worthy adversary, someone to test his power against, a challenge, something to break the monotony. Yet with three thousand years of waiting, the universe had failed to present one, and he had resigned himself to the fact that the only dolls that would participate in his games were children of men. Weak, hungry, pathetic, yet fun all the same.

'My Lord,' a voice interrupted his thoughts.

'What is it Balthazar?' he was weary today, uninterested. Creatures like Balthazar disgusted him, creatures with no will power governed by a need for blood. They to were victims of their desires, worse then humans, despicable things that flocked to him lured by the promise of violence and power. Above all they lacked subtlety.

'My Lord… M-My Lord… It has happened.' Balthazar was unable to keep still, his fidgeting a physical manifestation of his excitement.

'Control yourself. You disgrace your kind.'

'B-but M-Master, I… It… Finally someone has'

'Has what?' The Puppeteer's disdain was increasing.

'Someone has broken through' the yellow eyed creature blurted out.

The Puppeteer's face remained a personification of neutrality, yet inside he felt himself flooded with excitement. _The boy, it must be the boy_. He became aware that Balthazar was still speaking.

'A small town in North America… We must…'

'We must do nothing Balthazar,' he needed time to digest this.

'But My Lord…'

'But nothing Balthazar, get out of my sight,' his tone never changed, yet Balthazar flinched as though he had been struck. Picking himself up of the floor from the awkward kneeling position he had adopted, he ran from the room leaving The Master of Puppets alone. As the door slammed, a smile played across the Master's scarred lips, how he loved when things played out as planned.

'Oh you sweet boy,' he murmured to the empty room, 'You sweet stupid boy. Soon, soon, we will meet again.' His smile broadened, and for the first time in years, he felt excitement course through him fuelled by the promise of death and misery.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** Sorry about the delay in updating, kinda forgot about this...

Time for a trip down memory land for poor Vergil...

Hope you enjoy

R&R please, it makes me write faster!

Thanks for reading,

TC ;)

**

* * *

****Chapter 3**** In Memoriam**

_**Salvation **__**of the fallen**_

_There was a time when I dreamed. _

_In my darkest moments human nature plays the cruellest of tricks. I burn, I ache, I lose myself to the flames, but worse,_

_I remember._

_I recall a time before the shadows, a time where hope was something other than a folly of man._

_Where power was boundless,_

_Where the world would bow to my will,_

_Where I was safe._

_But they took that from me, the darkness that follows us all, swallowed it up, engulfing and suffocating. Now there was nothing left but a broken man with the ashes of burnt dreams slipping through his fingers._

_And so where once we were four only two stood, and I with the bitter taste of failure in my mouth._

_I wonder now whether it is true that s__hame is the worst of all human emotions. Certainly, in that moment when it consumed me I would have believed there was no greater pain, but I did not yet know betrayal. _

_Shame defined me, a failed protector, the personification of futility, and I lost myself to its embrace._

_Failed son, for I could not save her,_

_Failed brother because he is the shell of what he could have been if I had not, through my inaction denied him a mother,_

_Less then demon, I am at the mercy of human weakness,_

_Less then human, a title I do not deserve._

_Ashes and dust, standing in the shadow of a father that was all I could not be._

_But I was wrong,_

_This was not the end; my end had not begun,_

_Fate had one last card in hand, and in my darkest hour he came to me, the vessel for my salvation, with the sweet promise of redemption on his lips._

_And I preyed,_

_A single cry in the darkness born of desperation and sustained by loss._

_Lord of the damned,_

_Illuminate the path to deliverance,_

_Grant me the power to undo what is done,_

_Blind my eyes to suffering,_

_Deafen my ears to the pleas of the weak,_

_Steal my heart to my human flaws,_

_And I am reborn._

_More then human,_

_More then demon,_

_More then powerful,_

_I could not fail._

_And it thanked him, at the moment of my rebirth,_

_Uttered his name to the shadows,_

_Lord of the damned,_

_God of the Blasphemous_

_The reservoir of lost souls._

_I am his._

**In Memoriam**

I remember when he found me first. I was young, a foolish man with broken wings and the weight of loss heavy on my shoulders.

There was a place I used to go, a place where my first father, my true father used to take me, the highest point in the city where we could see for miles.

'All this could be yours,' he would say, and I would believe him. And I would laugh and brandish Yamato, a thing that was far too big for me at my young age, and try to seem threatening, waving it until I almost overbalanced, heart bursting with dreams of slaying demons and rescuing damsels. That's what hero's do, isn't it? And I would surly be the best the world had known, a dark knight of Sparda. My father would laugh, and ruffle my hair and I would see pride shining in his eyes.

After he left the place changed, no longer the home of opportunitys and boundless possibility that childhood boasted, but a darker place, haunted by the ghosts of my father and his shattered promises. I would return and curse him, screaming to the heavens, damning him for leaving me alone, for filling my head with hope, but mostly for all my weaknesses.

When my mother was ripped from me my anger seemed to dissipate, and the place was instead a relic of another life, a life where a father who loved me had promised me the world, and I had been young enough to believe him.

I return there still, though it drags up such painful memories. I am drawn to it by the promise of misery that it seems some warped masochistic part of me can not resist.

One such night, when the rain came down in a silvery sheet and the wind roared and howled around me in a twisted personification of my grief, he came to me.

I sensed him before I saw him, coldness, new and intense, stillness in the night, and the stench of power on the air. Power. I recall it still, unlike anything I had known before.

I was not afraid, I feared nothing any more, least of all death.

He did not speak at first, but seemed to wait just beyond my range of vision, observing me. Perhaps he expected me to flee, to call for help, but I felt I could not move I just stood with his eyes burning into the back of my neck.

It was like nothing I had felt before. He did not merely watch me; it was as though he devoured me. The walls I had created came crashing down and I knew he could see through me, through the armour to the failed son that resided inside.

'You are weak,' he said, a voice of ice that froze the blood. I turned to face him, the shadows that had concealed him releasing him from their embrace.

He was human in appearance, yet so much more, as though someone had made deliberate mistakes in crafting a figure.

He was tall, taller then I, though I was but seventeen, slim and elegant. He wore a high collared black coat, that brushed the ground as he walked- no glided, for his feet barley seemed to touch the ground.

I looked at the ground, then back up, meeting his eyes steadily. They were pale grey but clouded by some sort of eerie veil. As he drew closer I was sure I saw figures behind the irises, ghosts shifting inside him. A voice came to me on the wind, sweet and terrible, both drawing me too it and making me want to run for cover, far from this place and never return.

_The reservoir of souls,_

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the voice for it seemed to be echoing inside me.

_The home of the damned,_

_Where broken men reside,_

I looked back at the man, but his lips were not moving, resting instead in a perfect smirk while he watched me shudder.

_There is evil in your heart,_

_I will release you from this pain,_

_I will consume you,_

_Come to me child,_

_Before this pain destroys you,_

_I can end it,_

_I can…_

'No,' I said aloud, and his expression shifted to one of mock surprise.

'No?' he repeated, eyebrows raised, amused.

'I am not weak,' my voice was low, akin to the growl of some animal.

'Not weak, and yet you fail so often.'

I could not deny it. It was as though he could see inside me, as though my deepest, darkest secrets were written across my face.

'I pity you,' he said softly, approaching me, and I caught his stench, sweet and sickly, like rotting meat. I wanted to run but i feared my legs would not carry me.

'I pity all of you, all who are weak. I can help you know, I can end it all for you, I can take away this pain.'

I took a step back, heart thumping in my chest.

'You resist?

I met his eyes again, searching, but saw only my own face reflected there, young and afraid.

'I know what you want, I could help you,' he whispered. He raised a long fingered hand and gestured towards my chest, where my heart was till beating so furiously.

'There is power there you know…'

'No,' I repeated, unsure what I whether I was denying this, or rejecting his help.

'No… You are foolish. I told you that I pity the weak, but I have no pity for fools. You are a fool.'

I blinked, half formed words catching in my dry throat, a bitter rebuke dieing on my lips. He was watching me again, eyes calculating and devious.

'Perhaps I will not kill you,' he said finally the softness in his voice captivating, 'Perhaps you can be of use.'

'Why… Why would I help you?' I found my voice at last, my words sounding young and childish even as I spoke them.

He smiled that calculating smile.

'It is I that would be helping you Vergil Sparda.'

It did not surprise me that he knew my name, he knew everything about me.

'You have caused a great deal of damage child, do you know that? Your father left you the responsibility of protecting his family and what did you do? You failed him.'

I nodded slowly, nothing I had not already told myself.

'You robbed your young brother of a mother. He hates you for it, and you know that.'

I knew. It was nothing Dante had not already told me.

'You destroyed him, you stole his childhood. Your ineptitude and selfishness has hurt a great many people. I want to fix this.'

I searched his face, trying to read him as he so easily read me, but I could discern nothing.

'There is a way to make this right,' he said, 'A way to fix this.'

And I believed him.

'I help you, not because I feel you deserve it, but because I feel your family deserves better then you.'

I nodded slowly, almost subconsciously, it was true.

'I offer you a chance to repair the damage you have done. Come.'

He held out a hand to me, and I looked at it stupidly, head spinning.

History has a way of repeating itself, we are caught on some kind of existential carousel that we can not escape. We are doomed to repeat the same mistakes, for we do not learn. For the second time on that hilltop overlooking the city, a promise, an eloquent argument for hope, was offered to me by silver tongue and sweetened lips. A second hand was offered to me as before, again by one far greater then I, but this time with the promise of redemption. And for the second time I was stupid enough to believe the honeyed words, to fall victim of the bewitching spell cast by dreams and faith.

For he was right.

I was a fool.

And so I bent my head, and followed him into the shadows.

_The reservoir of lost souls,_

_Where broken men tread,_

_Where fools find salvation,_

_And wise men despair,_

_Hope is reborn,_

_And I am his._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N… WHERE THE HELL IS THIS GOING?**

**Yeah good Q… I kinda like the idea of Vergil looking back over his life before he ended up in hell, and going from there… then gonna go back to where I was… might rearrange the chapters then!**

**Confused? I confuse myself too… so no sympathy!**

Chapter 4- The Measure of Men

_There is a moment that comes in every great man's life, a moment in which he is everything he could ever be, going beyond dreams and reality to the very depths of the human soul, casting aside the restraints of his kind and finding inside himself a power he never knew was there. _

_This was what Gabriel had told me all those years ago._

'_This is how we measure men, this one defining moment, public façade in tatters, where a man is truly himself. It is a beautiful thing Vergil,' he would tell me, 'a beautiful and terrible thing. It is the moment in which a man chooses between what he knows to be right and true and just, and the sweet words of temptation that ruin many a great man.' _

_A beautiful and terrible thing,_

_Beautiful and terrible. _

_His words come back to me now, whispers in the darkness, shattered remnants of another life. _

_And I remember._

_I remember the moment that defined me, a moment that has haunted me more then any other while I rot in this prison that I must call my own. Perhaps I could say now that I had no choice, that the path of evil was predestined for me, that I was dragged down the road to self destruction with no choice and by forces far greater then myself. But it simply is not true. _

'_Free will is a terrible thing, and so often we see it as an opportunity not to seek justice but to peruse precisely the things we should never have.' _

_He warned me of this - Gabriel, so full of wise words and dangerous truths explaining the world through pretty parables, but lacking the power of mind to change it._

_I had a choice, I always had a choice._

_I could accept the past, learn and grow and be the kind of brother that Dante always deserved or I could wallow in self pity, allowing it blind me to the truth, striving only to ease my own shame._

_In my weakness I chose the latter, and that moment, the moment when I took that first step down my path to destruction defined me._

_It was this moment when I abandoned the righteous path of my father and my heritage and became nothing but a play_

_thing for my master to manipulate and then discard as he saw fit. It was the moment I chose to ignore all Gabriel's teachings, the moment that I cast my brother form me and chose a path of darkness in the bitter sweet belief that the ends would justify the means._

_It was the moment that I became a murderer._

*****************************

**Damnation**

Springtime always seemed to arrive suddenly in that part of the country, the thick, glittering blanket of snow retreating seemingly overnight, replaced by the invasion of startlingly bright bluebells and snowdrops that carpeted the frosty ground in a rich thread of blue and white. Colour seeped into the dark world of winter, brilliant in it's unfamiliarity and wonderful to behold.

February was Pastor Greene's favourite month and as he wandered the familiar path from the cemetery to the church he was thankful for a great many things.

The air that night was cool and crisp, the sky a cloudless indigo. He felt that springtime granted those who were wise enough to see it an insight into the miracle of life, and he stopped to admire a delicate spider wed, frost spun and glittering on one of the more ornate headstones.

He wondered now, as he had so many times before, how anyone could suffer a crisis in faith in a world such as this, when all they had to do was look around them to find god looking back.

He bent slowly to pick a snowdrop, marvelling at the way its delicate head hung and at the green tinges on the pure white leaves.

Beautiful.

Slowly, he righted himself again, taking care of his injured back, and placing his weight on the simple ash walking stick he carried with him always.

He heard the crunch of heavy boots on frosted grass behind him, and turned to see a figure, that of a young man approaching.

'Good evening' he called, straightening himself as close to his full height as he could manage.

He was wary of some of the younger members of the community. Lately a group of teenage boys had taken to breaking windows and scrawling slander on the walls of the old church. Nothing better to do then torment an old man in his too ancient and unhealthy to retaliate.

But this figure was unfamiliar, and, now that he grew clearer, slightly older then the village boys.

'Hello Pastor.'

His voice was quiet, yet it carried in the still night nonetheless. He had silver hair, and grey eyes with an angular, hungry looking face, and was dressed in a long black cloak that rustled as he walked. The Pastor felt slightly uneasy.

'Can I help you?'

'I should think so. I have a problem.'

The Pastor looked at the man, and found himself thinking that whatever kind of problem it was he didn't want to know about it. He was silent for a long moment as he considered his options.

'Is it a bad time?' the stranger pressed as the old man hesitated.

'No, of course not. The house of God is always open.'

'Of course it is.'

The mans face split into a devious, almost mocking smile.

'You see Pastor, I have something of a moral dilemma.'

The bewildered pastor waited for him to continue.

'Someone stole something that is rightfully mine. I want it back.'

The man was staring at the Pastor expecting some kind of response.

'Oh,' he whispered weakly.

'Tell me Pastor,' said the pale-haired man taking a step towards Greene, 'Is it wrong to take back what is rightfully yours?'

'I'm sure you know that the church teaches…'

'I don't particularly care what the church teaches. What do you think?'

'I believe in the word of god. My personal opinion is of little importance' he said shortly. The man was so close to the Pastor now that he could feel his cold breath against his cheek. He was tall, a good foot taller then the shrivelled old man.

'On the contrary, it is of the utmost importance what you think.'

The silver-haired man took a step back and turned his pinched face towards the sky. He moved so easily, unhampered by age or fear, a quiet confidence that was thoroughly unnerving.

'Tell me Pastor, if you had the opportunity to undo a great misdeed and right a great wrong, would you do it?'

'Obviously.'

'At any cost?'

'Not at any cost.'

'So you wouldn't do it then?'

The pastor closed his eyes, suddenly weary.

'I don't understand. What are you asking me to do?'

'I'm not asking you to do anything at the moment, merely seeking your opinion. Did you ever here of the philosophy of Machiavelli?'

'Of course,' said Greene shifting his weight back to the walking stick, aware of an intense wave of dislike washing over him, 'The theory that the end justifies the means.'

The pale man looked impressed.

'A good philosophy. If you achieve what you set out to achieve then the consequences of the path you were forced to take are negligible.'

'A good philosophy perhaps child, but at odds with the church. A ploy by the weak to justify their misdeeds. Certain means should never be justified.'

'So you disagree?'

'With the Machiavellians? Certainly.'

'Fascinating. And yet the philosophy is the church is so very contradictory. You say you would want to help me, and then say you would not.'

'I am aware of saying neither. I will do my utmost to help you.'

'I am grateful. And so I'll cut to the chase. You have something belonging to me.'

The Pastor shook his head, confused.

'I fear you are mistaken.'

The young man was unfazed, smile widening to a leer.

'An amulet, belonging to my father…'

Pastor Greene looked up, understanding finally dawning on him, it's arrival heralded by a cold wave of fury. The man- no not man, much more then man- placed a hand into one of his coat pockets, and withdrew a knife with casual ease.

'We have much to discuss.'

'We have nothing to discuss. I don't know where it is.'

'Hmm… and you wouldn't tell me if you did?'

'I'd rather die.'

'I'm glad to hear it, that can surly be arranged.'

'I know what you are.'

'I'm glad, I would hate to have to try to explain. They call my Vergil.'

'Vergil,' repeated the Pastor, the name familiar, 'Surly not the son…'

'So you have heard of me?'

'Your reputation precedes you yes.'

'And do I do it justice?'

'I would have expected much more from the son of Sparda,' the Pastor spat, and watched as Vergil's pale cheeks flushed angry red.

'Pastor Greene, let me tell you something about me, I am a Machiavellian. There is nothing I will not do to get this amulet. Is it worth dieing for?'

'Righteousness is always worth dieing for.'

'I see' said Vergil, taking a step back and rocking on the balls of his feat.

'I passed a house on the way here a young women with two children. Do you think she would say the same?'

'I… What?'

'In the village of Warren there or fifty-four people. How many of them would you see die to protect your secrets?'

'What?'

'Selfish isn't it? The problem with organised religion I think…'

'You wouldn't.'

'Oh I would. Don't believe you have the measure of me. Your kind are so naive.'

'Is it naïve to believe that there is good in people?'

'No. Just that there is good in demons.'

The Pastor looked at his feet and thought of the woman who lived in the house. Jeanie Hayden, recently widowed, who had never missed a church meeting as long as he could remember and who's apple pie was the talk of many women in the town. And her children Mandy and Sam. He didn't have a choice. He placed a hand to his throat and withdrew the locket that he kept hidden under his jumper.

Vergil's eyes widened in glee, and he reached forward and snatched it. He was about to turn away when a third voice startled them both.

'Playing with your food Vergil?'

The voice was soft and seemed to emanate from every possible direction. The Pastor turned to see a second man with haunted, pale eyes leaning on a nearby headstone.

'I have what I came for,' said Vergil, and Pastor Greene noticed him stiffen slightly. He was suddenly much younger looking.

'So finish the dead.' The new voice wasn bored.

'The dead is done.'

'But the Pastor lives?'

'Yes.'

'No.'

'What use is there in killing him?' Vergil's voice was slightly higher then it had been before, his eyes wider.

'Use? No use my sweet, but fun.'

Vergil's face fell, and he looked at his feet.

In that moment the Pastor knew that the boy had never intended to kill anyone. Despite the fear he felt pity for the child.

'Weak boy,' whispered the stranger, and the Pastor caught his scent on the air. Rotting meet. His stomach clenched.

Vergil looked up.

'Weak, stupid, boy.'

The figure took a few steps towards Vergil, who shuddered at his touch. A pale, unnaturally long-fingered hand closed around Vergil's, and the stranger forced the younger man's hand upwards so that Vergil's gun was now trained on the Pastor.

'Do it,' whispered the man, and Greene could have sworn he could see faces in the second mans eyes. _There are people there_, he thought wildly, _there are people inside him._

'Do it,' a second voice repeated, and Greene was surprised to here himself lspeak.

Vergil's fingers tightened on the blade's handle. He closed his eyes, and a single tear slid down his pale cheek.

'Please...' he hissed.

'Do it!' hissed the Stranger, tightening his grip on Vergil's fingers. A small gasp escaped Vergil's lips.

The Pastor closed his eyes, and for the last time he began to prey, his head filling with thoughts that were not his own.

_Weak boy, Stupid boy,_

Forgive…

_Little more then human_

Forgive him Father,

_Unworthy of your lineage_

For he knows not what he has done

_Do it_

The Pastor's eyed flickered opens, tear-filled brown met Vergil's terrified blue.

'Forgive him father for he knows not what he has done,' he whispered aloud.

Vergil stepped forward.

A single cry shattered the silence.

In that last moment Vergil found pity in the older man's eyes.

Pity and forgiveness.

And there was no more silence.

*******************************************

_Pastor Greene._

_The sound of that name cuts me like no blade ever could. _

_A Raw wound that will never heal._

_His blood still stain my hands,_

_His screams still deafen my ears,_

_And his face still haunts my darkest dreams. _

_It is a terrible thing to kill another man, a thing that maims a person's soul far beyond anything else in this world._

_Gabriel had warned me of this too, but even he, in his infinite wisdom could not prepare me for what was to come._

_I carry that man's memory with me wherever I go, he prowls through my thoughts, restless and unmoving a shadow within a shadow. And he was joined by more as the years went on, a screaming chorus of the dead that echo in my head, so I am never alone._

_I am like my master in many ways._

_Ironic, isn't it, that we are doomed to become that which we despise. For my head is full voices, and my thoughts are no longer my own. They follow me even in hell._

_I am but a reservoir of lost souls._


End file.
